Make No Mistake, I Live In a Prison
by immafishcracker
Summary: "Alfred has always known his eating is messed up. How can he forget with everyone shoving it in his face, "Oh look, America's gaining weight," and "I can't believe you haven't died yet, eating all that fast food". He silently takes the sharp jabs from the other nations, from his boss, from his people. All they see is food going in, but they've never seen how the food comes out."
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** TRIGGER WARNING: This fic talks a lot about eating disorders, so please stay away if those make you uncomfortable in any way. I want you guys to stay safe.

This was written with everything platonic, but I think no matter who you ship you'll be happy with this.

Title from The Chainsmokers "Sick Boy"

Chinese Translation: . ?novelid=4059226

* * *

He doesn't like this at all.

Arthur stares in the mirror, running his hands over his ribcage, catching on each of his prominent bones. The truth is, Arthur has always been bony. It's just how he was raised, foraging through forests, and running around generally malnourished. He's tried putting on weight, but for some reason he's never seemed able to.

He's tried eating larger meals, he's tried the stupid nutrition shakes, he's even tried eating America's greasy, fattening food, but nothing works, because as much as he denies it, Arthur has never been good with food. He can't cook to save his life, and he burns anything he comes in contact with.

There's nothing he hates more than admitting there's something wrong with him, and he just wishes he was more muscular. He's the British empire for heaven's sakes, he's fought in more battles than he can count and has ruled over half the world at some point.

So why the hell is he so scrawny?

He tries to hide it with thick sweaters, but there's just no disguising how _petite_ he is. There's no disguising the fact that he's always the first one done eating, the fact that sometimes he just has tea and biscuits instead of a meal, the fact that anything he eats is used immediately because his body has adapted to barely getting by.

But this isn't 1000 anymore, and he has enough to eat, and he doesn't want this anymore.

He likes spending time with Kiku, because he seems to understand, and Arthur suspects he has the same problem Arthur does. He just wishes he could be taller, or more muscular, like Ivan or Ludwig or _Alfred_.

Arthur had never thought he'd possibly be envious of the boy he used to call a younger brother. Alfred had just been a colony, a small insignificant port in the new world, and Arthur had been the mightiest empire in the world.

But now America is massive, and very possibly the most powerful nation at the moment. Arthur could care less about America's power, because he knows the young nation is unstable, but right now he is very envious of how _perfect_ Alfred looks.

It's not fair, Arthur thinks, that one can't be brawny _and_ brainy. As intelligent as he is, Arthur knows he isn't very attractive, what with his scrawny frame, pale skin, messy hair, and massive eyebrows. It's not fair because while Alfred is a complete moron, and can't read the atmosphere to save his life, he looks _perfect_. Ladies fawn over him. He's muscular and confident. People flock to him in a way that Arthur will never understand.

Arthur wonders if Alfred even has to work out. He's always been abnormally strong, so it's no surprise how muscular he is, but does he just rely off his natural strength? Or does he actually exercise? Arthur poses the question to Kiku in jest, and the Japanese man just stares at him, giving him that look he sometimes has that gives you the eerie feeling that he knows something you don't. Arthur drops it after that, realising that Kiku is actually good friends with Alfred, and possibly even knows about the boy's exercising habits.

Still, even with Kiku's foreboding glares, Arthur tries to avoid the younger nation, hating the feeling of being old and less than what he was. Of course he can't avoid America forever, they both play major roles in the G-8 and conferences are held every so often.

Arthur has to admit, when Alfred enters the meeting he doesn't look _quite_ as perfect as he usually does. He looks pale and his glossy hair has lost it's shine, almost as if he's been ill- not that Arthur is concerned about the boy. But his blinding smile is the same, so Arthur ignores it. Afterall, what kind of problems could the boy have? He's always on cloud nine, blissfully ignorant to life's problems.

He knows it's selfish, but Arthur can't help but think that Alfred doesn't deserve to have problems. He's powerful, he has money, he has resources.

Really, what problems could he have?

* * *

It was starting to become a problem.

Alfred has always known his eating is fucked up. How can he forget with everyone shoving it in his face, "Oh look, America's gaining weight," and "I can't believe you haven't died yet, eating all that fast food". He silently takes the sharp jabs from the other nations, from his boss, from his people. Because all they see is food going in, but they've never seen how the food comes out.

The don't see the way Alfred runs on the treadmill in the early hours of the morning until he's dizzy and can't lift his legs anymore. They don't see the way Alfred leans over the toilet, fingers clawing at the back of his throat until everything comes spilling out again. They don't see the diet pills, the laxatives, the scales, the weight logs, they don't see him drowning.

He won't let them see, because he knows it's a problem, and America doesn't have problems. America is confident and carefree and doesn't give a shit about what the world thinks of him, but Alfred is sinking, sinking under the weight of a million expectations.

Alfred knows what an eating disorder is. He knows he has one, not sure _which_ one, because none of the ones he hears about seem to fit him, but if he had to peg him to one he'd say he were bulimic. He overeats in manic binge eating sessions, then purges it through the treadmill or over the toilet. If it weren't for the fact that he also starves, he would be a textbook case of the disorder.

He's attended meeting after meeting, held by his Health Association. They say again and again that it's a problem, because 50 million Americans have an eating disorder and every hour another one dies from it. And Alfred stays silent through those meetings, because anything he could say would be so hypocritical his brain would bleed out his ears.

He's not sure if he has an eating disorder because of the high percentages in his country, or if there are such high percentages in his country because of _his_ eating disorder, but he prays it's not the latter. He couldn't live with himself knowing he was making his people suffer in such a way.

He tries to quit. He has regular mealtimes and cuts his exercising until he thinks he'll go crazy. Alfred will go a couple days or maybe even a week without purging, but then someone will comment that he's gained weight, or maybe he'll have to attend another one of those god-awful Health Association meetings, this one on obesity. And he'll go home and throw all his progress to the toilet. He'll restrict again until he can't walk in a straight line anymore, because a third of his people are obese, because America is fat and Alfred believes he is too.

Alfred's weight is like a pendulum, and he's sure it's not healthy how often it changes. He can't remember the last time he had anything more than coffee in the morning, can't remember the last time he got more than three hours of sleep because he's so _busy_ trying to fix everything.

Everyday there's another hurricane, another shooting, another protest, another country begging for his help, another country threatening to hurt his people, another _problem_. His people are hurting, America is hurting, and Alfred is hurting, and he wished it would all just _stop_. But the world keeps turning, and Alfred has to wake up every morning to new problems.

Every few months is a G-8 meeting, and Alfred wears at least three layers of clothes so they can't tell how much weight he's lost. He wears gloves so they don't see the scars on his hands from his own stomach acid. He puts on cologne so they don't smell the vomit and the sweat and the general smell of death that follows Alfred everywhere now days. He even resorts to wearing makeup, using concealer to cover the bags under his eyes and give his face a little more color.

Alfred sits through the meeting, sipping water from a pepsi cup because he knows they'll get suspicious if he doesn't have _something_ fattening on him. He gets in an argument with Arthur even though he doesn't want to, because that's normal and he needs to look normal or people will start asking questions. Arthur makes a quip about his weight and Alfred barely holds back the retort that while Alfred _does_ have the highest obesity rates in the G-8, Arthur is a close second. Instead he says something about Arthur's cooking and the man starts yelling until Germany shouts at them to shut up and listen to what's going on.

After the meeting, Matthew asks him if he's okay, because he looks pale and he hasn't called in a while and he also apologizes for worrying so much in the same breath. Alfred assures him that he's fine and that he's just been a little busy and a little stressed and prays that Matt doesn't pry further into the lie.

Matt buys into it and tells Alfred that he should call more often and that he misses him. Alfred smiles and cracks a joke, even though his heart is aching, because as much as he fears someone discovering his illness, something deep inside him _wants_ someone to find out. He _wants_ someone to cuddle him after nightmares and wipe his tears and tell him it's okay. He _wants_ someone to plan his meals for him, to stop him from purging. But he also knows that he's too stubborn and selfish to deserve that, so he stays silent.

 _If you wanted to be coddled, then why the hell would you flaunt being so independent, you moron_.

But he doesn't really want to be coddled, per say, he tells himself. He just wants to be loved, and he wants to be happy. Was that too much to ask? Wasn't it human nature to crave affection?

 _Ah, but you aren't human, now are you?_

Kiku comes to talk to him, and Alfred just nods, smiling. He can't hear what his friend is saying over his own jealousy, because Kiku is so thin. He doesn't need to watch what he eats, he doesn't need to throw up when he eats too much. Alfred recalls a few weeks ago when Kiku confided that he wanted to gain a little weight, that he thinks he's _too_ thin, that every once in awhile he'll get so distracted he'll forget to eat a meal. And Alfred just screams inside because he's so jealous he thinks he'll explode. He's jealous of Kiku's weight and metabolism and diet. He's jealous that Kiku can just forget to eat, because Alfred can't ever stop thinking about food and calories and how badly his stomach hurts.

Of course he doesn't say any of this to him. Alfred says he thinks Kiku is great the way he is, but that he shouldn't skip meals. He feels like the biggest hypocrite in the world, and he must've sounded off because Kiku looks at him weird, like he had just realised something about Alfred he'd never noticed before, and doesn't bring up the topic of weight again.

Later Francis and Ivan hear Alfred throwing up in the meeting hall's bathrooms and confront him as soon as he walks out, wiping vomit off his chin with his jacket sleeve. Francis is almost as big of a worrier as Matthew is, so Alfred isn't surprised at his hysterical interrogation, but he's shocked at how worried Ivan seems. He'd never thought the icy nation had cared, but here he was, just as panicked as Francis.

Alfred assures them he's still just feeling sick from the recent hurricanes, and he hadn't said anything because he didn't want to worry anyone and he was already so behind on all his work. Ivan and Francis hesitantly accept the excuse and tell him he should really go home and rest. Alfred laughs and tells them he's too busy to rest and heroes don't need days off. Ivan and Francis relax, because Alfred seems normal enough, but they send him back to the hotel anyways, which gives Alfred an excuse to skip dinner.

That night, Matthew visits Alfred's room, asking he can sleep with him like they did when they were kids. Matt says he's cold, or lonely, or just that he misses his twin, but Alfred knows the truth. He knows Francis told Mattie about the vomiting incident and sent him to make sure Alfred is really alright, but Alfred is lonely and hurting, so he just rolls over as usual and lets his brother into the bed.

For the first time in ages Alfred feels warm and safe, like he could sleep forever in Mattie's arms. He can finally breathe as his twin smothers him in affection, and he feels so relieved he could cry. He doesn't realise that he actually is crying until Matt starts carding his fingers through Alfred's hair and whispering comforting words, holding his brother securely to his chest.

Alfred lets himself cry, nuzzling into the crook of Matt's neck. He's beyond grateful for his sweet twin who comforts first and asks questions later, who just lets Alfred cry and doesn't tease or judge him for it later.

They fall asleep in a puddle of arms and legs, and for once Alfred's sleeps through the night.

* * *

 **Notes:** Poor Arthur has a lot of insecurities and is in denial about what's going on with Alfred

Matthew is an amazing brother (I love the North American Twins so much!)

Kiku is worried about his friend, Francis and Ivan are too

More crap is gonna go down next chapter

Reviews would be much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** Yes, this chapter is a texting fic, I know, cringey. It doesn't actually have a lot of content, but I promise I'll post a real chapter soon. Thanks for the feedback on the first chapter! It means a lot that you guys like this.

I know a lot of people dislike ED fics, especially in the Hetalia fandom, because so many people don't understand just how serious a disorder is and just use it for shipping triggers. This is why I think it's so important that this doesn't have romance in it, but again, you can ship anything you like.

* * *

Francis got the text a week after the meeting.

He had been surprised, to look down at his phone and see that he had a message from Ivan, _Ivan_ , of all people! The two had never really got along, then again, no one really did get along with Ivan, but it all made sense when he actually read the text.

 **From Ivan:**

I'm worried about America

Francis frowns, remembering Alfred vomiting during the world conference. Ivan's never shown concern about his young rival before, but Francis doesn't question it. This might be Ivan's way of trying to break out of his shell, or maybe to improve relations between the two countries. Either way, Francis isn't going to be the one to call him out on it.

 **To Ivan:**

That makes 3 of us

 **From Ivan:**

3?

 **To Ivan:**

Canada is worried too

 **From Ivan:**

Thats not good

Add him to the chat

 **~Francis added Matthew to the chat~**

 **To Group:**

Bonjour Mathieu

we are discussing ton frere

 **From Matthew:**

Alfred?

Yah hes been acting strange

Japan was talking to me about him too

 **From Ivan:**

Add him to the chat then

 **~Matthew added Kiku to the chat~**

 **From Matthew:**

Hey Japna

*Japan sorry

U know how you were talking to me aboutt Alfred

France and Russia are worried about him too

 **From Kiku:**

I am glad I am not the only one.

 **From Ivan:**

We saw him throwing up at the conference

 **From Matthew:**

What? I didnt know aboutt that!

 **To Group:**

He said he was just sick from the

How do u say

ouragan?

 **From Matthew:**

Hurricanes

 **To Group:**

Oui

He did look sick

But what if its somthing else

 **From Ivan:**

Either way

He shouldnt have been at the meeting

 **From Kiku:**

I am worried that he is skipping meals.

 **To Group:**

Merde

You don't really think he'd do something like that?

 **From Ivan:**

He IS young

…

And stupid

 **From Kiku:**

I would not call him unintelligent,

However, we are aware of his insecurities regarding his weight

 **To Group:**

What do you think Mathieu?

You know him best

 **~Matthew is typing~**

 **~Matthew is typing~**

 **~Matthew is typing~**

 **From Matthew:**

I wouldn't put it past him

He's done stuff like this before

 **To Group:**

What?!

 **From Ivan:**

(o _ o) ?

 **From Kiku:**

What do you mean?

 **~Matthew is typing~**

 **~Matthew is typing~**

 **From Matthew:**

I've said too much

Forget I said anything

We should talk to Alfred before we jump to conclusions

 **To Group:**

You are right

You should do it

You know him best

And we dont want to panic him

 **From Ivan:**

I'm not allowed to talk to him about that kind of stuff

 **Kiku:**

Is there a reason why not?

 **Ivan:**

Government policy

I can't do any more than this

 **Kiku:**

Would it be intrusive to ask why you're doing this much in the first place?

Last I checked you and America were not on best terms

Francis doesn't think he's met anyone braver than Kiku. There's no way in hell he'd ever try and question Ivan's motives to his face. They were all thinking it, but Kiku is the only one to actually ask.

 **Ivan:**

America is the only one who holds a candle to my strength

I want to tear him apart myself and I won't let anyone beat me to it

Even him

Well, it's not the _best_ reason to be concerned for America, but Francis guesses a good deed is a good deed regardless. They'll need the help. He's known Alfred since he was a child, and knows just how stubborn he can be. Getting him to change his ways will be like trying to get a river change directions.

The chat ends with Ivan's ominous message. It's a haunting image, to think someone as bright and cheerful as Alfred could be tearing themselves apart. Even more disturbing are Matthew's hints to previous events like this. Francis wonders if Matthew would share details with someone closer to the twins, and makes a mental note to call him later.

Francis goes to bed with a glass of wine and a plan. He's already lost too much, he isn't going to let another person he cares about fall because of his own inattention to their needs.

Alfred is going to be fine, whether he wants be or not.

* * *

 **Notes:** Welp. So I know Russia kinda feels ooc, but as a writer he's really a wild card. Also I'm pretty sick of him just being the villain.

Please tell me what you think. There are a lot of errors in this chapter, but they were intentional. I didn't non-native english speakers would text with perfect spelling and grammar, but if it makes it difficult to read I can fix it. Also if the text formatting is weird and you have a better idea for it, I'm all ears.

Reviews would be greatly appreciated! Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:** This chapter was originally part of the last one, but I reorganized a lot of this story so I decided to post them seperately. That's why they're both quite a bit shorter than the first chapter. Hopefully the next one will be longer.

Remember how Matt was gonna call and check up on Alfred? Well to his surprise, Alfred's gonna call him first.

* * *

Holidays are hell for anyone with an eating disorder, Alfred would know.

There's too much food, too many crowds, too many expectations. It's like they're _made_ to torture anorexics and bulimics, exposing them to each and every one of their worst fears.

Neighbors are always bringing over home-baked sweets and goodies that land straight in Alfred's trash can. Overcrowded house parties are filled to the brim with snacks and illegal alcohol. Family dinners are the perfect deathtrap for those who had previously been able to hide their disorder.

It's no wonder Alfred dreads this time of year. There's just one celebration after another, each completely based around food, as if they know it's his weakness.

Still, Alfred thinks he just might make it through this year. He knows none of his neighbors, at least not close enough for them to bring gifts. He has no close family other than Matthew (who celebrates Thanksgiving on a different date) and the only party he's attending is the stiff formal event the white house is throwing to appease the press.

That is, until his boss unceremoniously reminds him of _his_ party.

"You _are_ throwing your Christmas party this year, aren't you?" He asks a week after Thanksgiving, glancing over the pile of paperwork at the suddenly tense nation.

Alfred's mind freezes, but only for a moment. The shock is quickly replaced with panic. How the hell could he forget about the Christmas party? Every year he invites any nation who will come to a giant party for the winter holidays.

He's normally a good host, planning games, activities, and of course, a massive, American-style Christmas dinner. But he knows this year it's not an option. He has absolutely no hope of buying and preparing so much food with his mental state the way it is. However, canceling the party is out of the question. It would be like screaming to the world, "Hey there's something wrong with me this year!" or "I don't like you guys and don't want you in my house!" He hates it, but he knows he's stuck between a rock and a hard place. So he begrudgingly starts to plan the party.

Then by some miracle, a solution to his food problem falls into his lap.

It's only been a few hours since his meeting with the President, and he's trying to make an outline of what he needs for the party, when one of the young interns approaches him.

"Hey, Jones!" He's holding a bagel and a cup of coffee, and Alfred's stomach twinges painfully, reminding him that he's skipped both breakfast and lunch now.

"Hey, Davis," Alfred sighs, looking up from the short list he's scratched out in an unused notebook.

"Can you let Sarah know I'm not gonna be here next week? My family's having a potluck back home in Indiana, and I don't really have much choice but to go."

Alfred's eyes widen at the word, "Potluck? ...Sounds fun,"

Davis chuckles, "Yeah, gotta figure out something to make. You'll tell her, right?"

Alfred nods, almost forgetting the original question in his excitement. A small smile spreads across his face. A potluck just might be the perfect solution for this problem. He scribbles out his list as Davis walks away, black pen making an ugly smear across the lined paper.

He has a plan now, and it might just be the thing to save his sorry ass.

* * *

"Al?" Matthew's voice breaks over the line. It's groggy, like he had just woken up, and Alfred mentally berates himself for not checking the Canadian's time zone.

"Hey, Mattie!" He forces his tone to be cheerful even though he feels like he could collapse, "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"Nah, I need to get up and get some work done anyways," Alfred can hear his brother yawning softly, and he grins. Something about Matt's presence is just calming. "Did you need something?"

"Oh yeah! I had an idea for my Christmas Party this year, and I wanted to hear what you thought about it!" There's a soft 'feed me' in the background and Alfred can't help but smirk at his brother's pet polar bear.

"Hmm, that's right, Christmas is coming up isn't it? Don't you usually send out invites earlier than this, though?"

Alfred tactfully ignores Matt's question by jumping directly to his idea, "What if we did a potluck this year?"

"A potluck?"

"Yeah, y'know, everyone could bring a traditional winter dish from their place and we could all try out each other's foods!"

There's a silence, and Alfred anxiously holds his breath until Matt finally says, "That's actually a really cool idea."

"You think?"

"Yeah, I think the others will be really into it, do you need any help planning?"

"I'm good, just gotta send out invitations and decorate."

Matthew hums in agreement. There's a few metallic clunks from his end and the sound of running water, "Doing a potluck should take some of the pressure off you, because you don't have to make all the food."

Alfred fidgets a little, not wanting to mention that it's the _exact_ reason he wants to do the potluck. There's something in Matt's tone, and panic fills Alfred's veins like ice.

 _He knows._

"By the way," the running water turned off with a squeak and shutter of pipes, "Are you doing alright? Francis was saying he was worried about you at the last conference, and Japan was asking if you're eating enough…"

 _He knows._

Alfred curses under his breath. He fucking _knew_ it, they were talking about him behind his back. Not that he isn't used to people talking shit about him when they think he isn't listening (or hell, when they _know_ he was listening, they don't seem to care), but they were starting to get uncomfortably close to the truth. Kiku had even talked to Matt about it, and Matt had probably babbled about Alfred's sobfest after the meeting and now they're all suspicious.

(Deep down Alfred knows Matthew wouldn't really, but it makes him nervous anyways.)

Alfred laughs (he's had a lot of practice faking laughs) and says, "'Course I'm eating enough! You worry too much Mattie." He _is_ eating enough, enough to get by, enough to stay at least semi-focused in meetings, enough that he still has to throw up at the end of the day to make sure he hasn't eaten _too much_.

" _Okay_ …" Matt says hesitantly, and Alfred knows he hasn't convinced him. His lungs are contracting ever so slightly in panic, and he knows he needs to end this conversation, _now_.

"Well, I should probably go start on the invitations, I'll call you later, Mattie!"

"Oh, okay, I'll see you then."

Alfred hangs up and finally collapses back on his bed. Matthew, Francis, and Kiku are suspicious, and suddenly he is terrified. He's imagined the other countries finding out, he's even considered just telling them, but now that it's happening he just wants it all to stop.

He realizes that now more hangs in the balance of the success of the Christmas party than he had planned. He has to convince them that everything is normal and okay. Telling anyone about his illness is suddenly out of the question.

* * *

 **Notes:** Poor Alfred is stressed.

I love the NA twins so much, I wish they had a better relationship in canon.

If anyone was confused about what Matt was doing on the other side of the phone conversation, he was doing the dishes.

I don't know if this affects anyone, but this story is also posted on AO3 under the same name.

Reviews would be much appreciated! (:


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** So, I don't remember if I've talked about this or not, but in this story I switch a lot between country and human names. It has a lot to do with how close the countries that are talking are to each other and also the context of the story. If you think I should just stop and pick one, go ahead and tell me.

* * *

 _The memory is burned into Gilbert's mind clear as day. It's a surprise, because most of his memory from that time is a murky mess of pain and confusion at best. He still doesn't remember half of what happened to him under Soviet control._

 _It's sometime between 1950 and 1970, a blank stretch of twenty years in his mind, only broken by this one clear memory. He's bound to a chair in the back of an office, both hands and feet are tied. There's a strip of fabric shoved to the back of his throat. Russia is there, as always. America is there too, which is strange._

 _Neither nation makes any acknowledgement that Gilbert is there, other than the brief glance America gives him walking in. It's like he's a ghost, an invisible onlooker in a private conversation. They sit down, eyes locked in a silent battle for dominance. The tension in their glares sends a shiver down Gilbert's spine. He's never seen such an intense look on America's face._

 _Cold, uninterested conversation fills the air. They speak of bombs and spies and science so complex it makes Gilbert's mind spin. They speak of lives—human lives, as if they are nothing more than playthings, pieces in this sick, twisted game of theirs._

 _Russia says something that clearly interprets as a threat, and America laughs. It's not his regular, loud and booming one. This laugh is sharp and cruel. It sounds eerie and unhinged, like it should belong to someone much older than its actual owner. His whole body is rigid, the look in his eyes is intelligent—too intelligent. This is not the boy Gilbert met so many years ago on the battlefield. The one with blind fantasies of freedom and the determination to bring the British empire to his knees. This is someone entirely different._

 _Gilbert realizes suddenly that he is sitting in a room of sociopaths. Two sociopaths who have all the power in the world, and who won't hesitate to destroy it as long as they come up on top._

 _And he had taught America how to shoot._

Gilbert knows a lot about masks. He should, given how much he wears them.

He has to, because despite his confident and carefree nature, Prussia was a country forged and hardened by years of war and bloodshed. At this point it's all he really knows how to do, pick fights and slaughter his opponents. Or be slaughtered. Depends who's side Hungary is on.

He knows there are times when you have to bite back fear and put on a grin, times when you have to _bleed_ confidence even though all you really want to do is cower in terror. A stable mask is the mark of a true warrior. No one can know about the way his stomach curls in painfully on itself every time someone calls him Prussia, the way he's reminded of everything he was and everything he lost. No one can know about the mornings Ludwig finds him curled under the bathroom sink, dried tears on his face and screams still ringing in his ears.

He wonders what his father would think if he could see him now. He thinks of how disappointed he would be to know what Gilbert's become. Ludwig doesn't remember their father, the same way he doesn't remember most of his childhood. There's a small part of Gilbert that's glad. Ludwig is everything. Gilbert raised him as if he were his own kid, and every time he looks into those sky blue eyes, so unlike his own, he's terrified that he made all the same mistakes their father did.

Gilbert knows he scares his little brother. Scares him in the way he sometimes wakes up with bloody fingertips, still clawing at his own skin. Ludwig will sit with him, eyes heavy with the guilt of his mistakes, and Gilbert will let his mask slip just a little. They'll talk about anything and everything until his hands stop shaking and he'll let Ludwig help him get cleaned up.

It helps. It really does. He gets enough sleep now, enough that his eyes aren't perpetually lined with bruise-like bags. He's gotten to the point that he can fool around with his friends and tease Austria without having to work to seem carefree. He doesn't always need the mask to keep a smile on his face.

That doesn't mean he can't see when others are wearing it. Gilbert knows a lot about masks.

He can tell Italy isn't always as blissfully cheerful as he seems (no one can be that happy all the time). He can see through Denmark's mask of unfaltering confidence (everyone has their insecurities), and through Poland's mask of apathetic idiocy (sometimes it's just easier to pretend you don't care). England is just keeping up appearances, China has seen the endless cycle of history too many times to count. They all wear a mask of some sort. Gilbert sees them all.

If they're in a parade of masks, America is the conductor.

Gilbert has never seen a mask as thick as America's. The amount of shit the kid hides behind there is ridiculous. He doesn't even think _he_ could get away with it, but America does somehow.

It's actually pretty annoying. There's a timebomb right in front of everyone, yet Gilbert is the only one to really see it. At least Russia has the decency to let everyone _know_ he's crazy. With America, it's tricky.

* * *

Gilbert brings beer to the party, obviously. Ludwig brings some other dish because he likes to cook and has a thing about making good impressions at social events with the other nations, but Gilbert brings beer. There's nothing more German than alcohol.

Alfred answers the door when they knock, and his eyes immediately snap to the bottles in Gilbert's arms. "Goddammit, I should have known." He sighs, but lets them into the house with a, "Please try not to mix it with the stuff Denmark and Spain brought."

The house is crowded with people. Alfred's annual Christmas party is more of a political event than a social one (turning down an invitation is like flipping off someone with a knife to your throat), but since _Alfred's_ the host, the underlying tense atmosphere is heavily masked with a false, lighthearted air.

Streamers hang from the ceiling. A giant, glowing christmas tree stands tall and proud in the living room corner. Other than a few folding chairs and the table of food, there isn't a lot of furniture decorating the house. Gilbert wonders if America's place is usually this way, or if he empties it out for the party.

It only takes a single glance at the food table for him to tell that he's far from the first person to bring alcohol. Several bottles litter the table, and some of them are already half empty. Gilbert can tell this is going to be a very short party.

He pours a drink for himself. Several actually.

Gilbert vaguely recognizes Francis standing by the far wall. He's not drinking anything, which is strange, and is speaking in hushed tones with- who is that? Japan? They keep glancing over to where Alfred is speaking to someone else- a blonde, but Gilbert can tell who.

God, there are too many blondes in Europe. It's his last thought before the night goes bat-shit crazy.

Everything's a whirl of fairy lights, foreign Christmas carols, and drinks from several different cups that Gilbert isn't even sure are his anymore.

At some point, another blonde grabs him by the arm and mutters, "Brother, you should take it easy on the alcohol."

 _Brother_

 _Bruder_

 _Holy Rome_

 _No, that's not right_

 _Germany_

 _West_

 _Ludwig, yes that's it_

Gilbert hisses something that's supposed to make Ludwig stop worrying, but it comes out garbled and wrong and he doesn't think it works, because Ludwig is leading him to another room. He's saying something about sitting down and not passing out.

Gilbert insists he's not drunk because there's not enough beer in the world to get him really drunk. Ludwig just swears in German under his breath and herds him towards a chair.

Gilbert doesn't want to sit down, he wants another drink but Ludwig won't listen to him. He starts to flail, trying to get out of his baby brother's grasp, and the next thing he knows, his hand has gone straight through the living room wall.

"Are you serious?"

Alfred is there. Everyone is staring.

"I gave you one job. _Don't mix the alcohol_ , and now there's a hole in my wall."

A steady stream of apologies are streaming from Ludwig's mouth, but Gilbert isn't listening. He pulls his hand out of the cracked plaster and is surprised to find blood streaming down his knuckles.

People are talking around him, but he can't hear what they're saying. Antonio yells something, and someone is babbling in a language Gilbert doesn't understand. Ludwig says something about stopping the bleeding.

"No, I'll do it. There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom. You find him some water or something, try and get him sober."

The next thing he knows, he's been shunted into a bathroom and sat down on the lid of a toilet seat. Alfred is rummaging through one of the cabinets under the sink. Under the fluorescent lights, Gilbert can see dark circles lining his eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbles, voice slurred.

"Tell me again when you're sober." Alfred growls, and Gilbert can tell he doesn't expect him to remember this in the morning. To be honest, Gilbert doesn't either.

Alfred starts dabbing Gilbert's fist with an alcohol pad, and in a surprising moment of clarity, Gilbert looks down to see something silver glinting in the bottom of the cabinet. He blinks. It's a razor blade.

"What's that?"

Alfred looks up when Gilbert speaks, then follows his gaze down to the blade. For half a second, the mask cracks and his eyes widen in something that looks like fear. Then he looks back to Gilbert, and in a perfectly level tone says, "It's a razor. Y'know, to shave with? Don't you have those in Europe?"

They do. And it's a perfectly reasonable thing to keep in a bathroom, but something about the blade bothers Gilbert. If he were sober he could probably tell what.

"Why isn't it in a razor?"

Alfred hesitates, "It's broken… or a spare or something. I don't know."

There's something wrong with this response, but Gilbert's too wasted to tell what it is. He can't ask any more questions anyways, because Ludwig walks into the bathroom with a cup of water.

Relief flashes over Alfred's face, and he starts winding gauze over Gilbert's hand as Ludwig starts to repeat all his apologies.

"S'alright, just don't let him drink anymore tonight."

Ludwig frowns, his voice tapering off. He hands Gilbert the cup of water (which Gil promptly spills most of down his shirt), keeping his eyes glued on Alfred.

"Are you alright?"

"Hmm?"

"You look pale."

Alfred turns to look at himself in the mirror and something dark washes over his expression, "Oh, huh."

He mutters something about stress, but Ludwig has always been king of calling people out on their bullshit, "Maybe you should go sit down and rest for a while."

"I'm fine. C'mon, help me get your brother to stand up."

A hand tightly grasps around Gilbert's forearm, pulling him to his feet. He stumbles out of the bathroom and into the hallway, blindly following Ludwig. Alfred takes up the rear.

The living room is loud. People are asking him if he's okay, and someone's teasing him about the fist-shaped hole in Alfred's wall. Gilbert just wants to leave, but just then someone gasps and there's a loud thud. He turns around to find Alfred face down on the floor.

Even drunk off his ass, he's pretty sure that isn't normal.

* * *

 **Notes:** So I've had an eventful past month. There's been a wild fire near where I live and the smoke has been unbearable. Also I almost lost my job, so I've been pretty swamped. No fear, though! I still have a job, and the fire is out, so I am back to writing!

This chapter had a lot more to do with Prussia and how messed up he is (I can't leave anyone alone, can I). Prussia's view of who America is greatly influenced by his memories of the American Revolutionary War and his experiences during the Cold War, in contrast to everyone else, who view America as a playful idiot.

I'd love to hear your feedback for this chapter! Don't forget to leave a comment and a kudos!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** Hey! Thanks for waiting, here's the next chapter!

Sorry, I know you guys are anxious to find out what's going on with America, but the events of this chapter happen at the same time as the stuff from last chapter. You guys are gonna have to wait for just a little longer. I think you'll like this chapter, though. It's a bit longer than the other ones.

* * *

Arthur would never admit it, but he's not actually sure that he's ever had a properly cooked scone.

He thinks he must have at some point. There has to have been at least one perfect scone that he's been trying and failing to recreate for all these years, but he can't remember it for the life of him. All the scones he's ever made have had the consistency of rocks and the flavor of, as Alfred loves to put it, 'petrified couch stuffing'.

The rest of Great Britain is just as bad at cooking as he is. Arthur's childhood (was he ever really a child?) is vividly painted with charcoal flavored rabbit and food poisoning misdiagnosed as witchcraft. Sometimes he credits his "mumsie" for the recipe, although he hardly remembers the woman and isn't entirely sure she ever really existed.

Some days he thinks there might not have been an original scone, that he might have been set up to fail from the beginning. Today's one of those days.

Arthur throws open the windows and smoke billows out of his kitchen. A tray of burnt food lies on the counter, and it takes all his self control not to just throw the crusty mess out onto the back lawn.

A potluck. A goddamned potluck. It's like Alfred is _trying_ to humiliate him.

Arthur knows nothing he makes is good enough to bring to the party (he's been trying the whole two weeks since he got the invitation), but he also knows that he can't just show up empty handed.

He's desperate, and in desperation, Arthur makes bad decisions. Like calling the Frog.

Arthur's barely finished typing in the phone number (he hates that he has it memorized) and he already regrets it.

 _Don't pick up._

 _Don't pick up._

" _Angleterre_?"

 _Dammit_

"If this is about what I said last Friday, you art is _hideous_. I'm not taking it back."

Arthur exhales sharply out his nose. He can already feel a migraine coming on. "No, you bloody idiot this isn't about the art. I need your help with something."

There's a tangible silence.

"This is a prank isn't it. You want a test subject for your magic tricks and my hair is going to end up pink again, isn't it?"

"No, I'm not going to turn your hair pink, where did you get that-" Arthur takes a deep breath, and forces himself to stay civil, "just… listen, did you get an invitation to Alfred's party?"

"Oh, yes! I'm rather excited actually, I think it's going to be a good one this year. Sharing our cultural foods sounds like such a good idea, I'm personally going to bring-" Francis' rambles stutter to a stop, and Arthur can practically _hear_ the cogs turning in the frenchman's dusty head, "Wait… wait a minute, you aren't… you aren't _making_ anything, are you?"

"That's what I was going to ask you about," Arthur growls through gritted teeth.

Another stretch of silence.

"You want me to help you make something for the party?" Francis sounds like he can't believe his ears, and Arthur wants nothing more than to hang up.

More silence.

"Okay, I'll do it."

"You will?"

"Only to make sure you don't make anyone ill. I'll be at your place tomorrow, so please try not to burn your house down."

"I'm not going to set anything on fire!"

Francis just laughs, then hangs up.

True to his word, the next day Francis appears at Arthur's door with a bag of cooking utensils and a smile that is a little too smug for Arthur's liking.

He lets himself into the kitchen like he owns the place, and drops the bag on the counter, "I wasn't sure what kind of supplies you had, so I decided to buy a whole new set."

Arthur scowls and crosses his arms tightly, "I don't need your _spoons_ ," he hisses, but Francis doesn't seem the least bit intimidated.

"Just think of them as an early Christmas present. Now let's get started." He ties an apron around his annoyingly fashionable quarter-sleeve sweater, and turns on the sink to wash his hands. "I was thinking we should make some kind of pastry, since they're the thing you're the _least_ horrible at making. I'm not wasting my time trying to teach you something new."

Arthur has to bite his tongue to keep the flood of insults back, and reminds himself that he was the one who invited Francis over. If this is going to work, he's going to have to work with the bloody man.

They start with the dough. Francis reads off the recipe while Arthur gathers ingredients. There are a few things he's never heard of, but Francis just pulls them out of his bag like he was _expecting_ Arthur to be completely clueless. At one point Francis pulls out a tool that Arthur would have used to mash potatoes and starts mushing the butter into the flour. It's at this point that Arthur realises just how little he understands about cooking.

Francis nearly has a heart attack when Arthur tries to put the tray in the oven before preheating it, and has to explain that the cooking time does _not_ include the time it takes for the oven to preheat.

It's miraculous that their first batch comes out half-decent. Francis doesn't look very happy about it, but it's the best thing Arthur's made in his life. It's not on fire, so he counts it as a success.

Francis isn't satisfied, so they make a second batch.

Halfway through they get in an argument over the measurement of salt, and the resulting fight ends with the walls of Arthur's kitchen entirely coated in flour, and the floor covered in gooey, half-completed dough.

The third batch makes it safely into the oven, and gains Francis' approval when it comes out. Arthur isn't entirely sure if the Frenchman actually likes the pastries, or if he's just giving in because they're out of ingredients. They start icing it with a raspberry cream that Arthur is very glad can be bought pre-made at the store.

"I was surprised when you called, Arthur," Francis suddenly says as he swirls intricate designs onto his pastry, "you aren't usually one to ask for help."

Arthur feels heat rise in his face, and the pastry he's holding starts to crumble in his clenched hands. He forces his voice to stay level as he replies, "This is just a one time thing. You whine so much about my food, but if you help make it then you can't complain about it being bad."

Francis grins, "You're getting soft, Arthur."

" _Shut up_ ," Arthur hisses.

Francis laughs, and Arthur smashes his pastry into the annoying prat's perfect hair.

* * *

Matthew gets asked it all the time.

" _It must be awful having America as a brother. How do you stand it?"_

" _How did someone like you end up with a brother like him?"_

" _Why do you give him the time of day? You just want him to trade with you, right?"_

Matthew gets it, he really does. He understands why they ask the questions, he can see the America they do. America is loud, obnoxious, and immature. He's overconfident, and struggles to sympathize with others on a base level. He's conceited and violent and Canada's opposite in every way possible.

" _They look alike, but they're so different."_

" _Poor Canada. He should stand up for himself and just leave."_

" _I know I would be a better brother."_

Matthew understands, but he hates it. All they look at is America, but they've never truly seen Alfred. They never see the boy with a goofy smile and stars in his eyes, who rambles about planes and space and science and all the things he's so passionate about. They've never seen the good things about Alfred- the real things.

But Matthew has.

They go to movies sometimes, and Alfred lets Matt ramble about plotholes and historical inaccuracies the entire time. After the movie, they'll order ice cream and Alfred always remembers that Matt likes maple syrup and hot fudge on top of his. Sometimes Alfred will call out of the blue with a random question like, "Hey Matt, fifty degrees celsius is like, really hot, right? I know you've told me before but I seriously can't remember," even though they both know he could just Google it.

There are a lot of good things. Like the way Alfred never actually calls Matthew by his name. It's always Matt, Mattie, Mattress, Matt-in-the-hat, or any of the other strange nicknames he calls him. Alfred is warm and a little air-headed at times, but he's determined and hard-working. He'll fight tooth and nail for anything that's important to him, and Matthew admires him for it.

But there is darkness to every light, and for all the good things about Alfred, there are just as many bad things.

He works too hard. Alfred will stay at work for days, only coming home for an hour at a time, stressed out of his mind. He's paranoid. Alfred checks his doors once, twice, three times to make sure it's locked. He still hasn't dropped the habit of checking for cameras or microphones whenever he enters a room. The diets are even worse. Alfred has a different diet every other month, gluten-free, carb-free, he even went vegan for a week (unsuccessfully). They get progressively more drastic and Matthew thinks it's only a matter of time before Alfred just goes food-free altogether.

Sometimes when Matt uses the bathroom after Alfred, he can still smell the thick, metallic scent of blood. He knows Alfred doesn't always have the healthiest coping mechanisms, and they've talked about it before, but nothing ever changes. Matthew has pulled Alfred away from the edge of this particular cliff more times than he can count. He urges his twin to talk to someone, but Alfred is far too paranoid and distrusting, so Matt just does what he can and _prays_ that something will break the cycle.

Something like the Christmas party.

No one knows Christmas like Alfred. Well, actually, no one knows how to capitalize off Christmas like Alfred. Marketing holidays is like Alfred's specialty and his house is an explosion of every profitable Christmas decoration there is. Lights of every color are strung from the ceiling. Carols in several different languages are blasting from the speakers, and every open surface is covered in tinsel.

"Mattie, you're here! Perfect!" Alfred grabs Matt out of the crowd and pulls him over to the food table, "I need you to watch the alcohol. Sealand and his friends snuck in the back, and I need to find something to distract them."

"Al, I don't think-"

"Thanks! You're the best!" And just like that his twin is gone.

Matthew stares blankly forward, still trying to catch up with the quick conversation.

"Your brother seems stressed tonight."

The sudden voice makes Matthew jump, and he whirls around to find Francis standing behind him. His hair is pulled back with a red ribbon, and he's holding a box of Madeleine cookies.

"Oh, hey Francis."

"Merry Christmas, Mathieu. I hope you're having a better time than your brother is," Francis laughs, then gestures to where Spain is drinking straight from a wine bottle, "I think he's trying to figure out the alcohol situation."

Denmark yells something from another room and Matthew winces at the sound. "His boss isn't going to be very happy if he finds out."

Francis raises an eyebrow, "He isn't?"

"He isn't happy about a lot of things."

Francis opens his mouth, but his reply is cut off by Arthur, who stumbles out of the crowd and nearly trips over the table. It's by chance that Matthew is able to grab his arm and keep him from face planting.

"Ouch, damn it, thank you- oh Matthew, it's you," Arthur straightens, regaining his balance, and tugs at the hem of his sweater as if to seem more dignified. It isn't working very well. Francis is still smirking.

Kiku extracts himself from the crowd with much more grace and comes to stand by the other three nations, "We were looking for Alfred. Have either of you seen him?"

Francis takes another bite of Madeleine and points towards the door, "He's trying to keep people away from the drinks."

"There are drinks? Excellent." Arthur reaches for one of the bottles, but Francis steps in.

He grabs Arthur by the wrist and gives him a knowing look,"I don't think that's a very good idea, _Angleterre_. You know how you get when you're drunk."

Matthew agrees. He knows all too well the damage that can be done while Arthur is intoxicated. Arthur glares, but doesn't try to deny the fact that he is an awful drinker.

Alfred suddenly appears, holding two new bottles and not looking happy about it, "I'm back, got them playing Mario Kart with Denmark."

As if on cue, Denmark screams, "Take that, Baby Peach!" from the other room.

Alfred drops the bottles on the table with a heavy thud, "Ludwig and Gilbert are here. Brought more booze with them, too." Sure enough, Prussia's silver hair is unmistakable from where he's standing at the other end of the table, already pouring himself a drink.

"You should have a pastry, Alfred," Francis offers, holding out the plate. Alfred startles as if he hadn't realized any of the food was there, "Arthur made them."

"Uh, no offense man, but I'm not sure I want to try anything _Arthur_ made."

Arthur crosses his arms angrily, and huffs in indignation, "My cooking is _fine_! And even if it isn't, France made half of those, so if they're bad blame him!"

Matthew can hear the insecurity in those words and knows Alfred can too. They've spent their entire childhoods pretending Arthur's food isn't horrible as to not hurt his feelings. Alfred actually telling the truth about Arthur's cooking is a relatively new development, but old habits die hard. Francis is trying to guilt trip Alfred into eating the food.

Matthew can see the pure terror in his brother's eyes as Francis nudges the plate closer, and frowns. He doesn't think this is a very good idea. Matt meets eyes with Kiku, and can see the same panic in the Japanese man's eyes that he's feeling himself.

"I don't-"

There's a loud crash from the other room, and people start yelling. Matthew can _hear_ Alfred let out a breath in relief. "Sorry, I gotta check that out." He slips away without another word.

While everyone tries to get closer to see the source of the crash, a single dark ponytail moves _away_ from the commotion. China approaches the food table looking entirely unimpressed. He grabs a pastry off the plate Francis still has extended and pops the whole thing into his mouth. Japan scowls at the display, but doesn't say anything.

"Prussia put his arm through the wall," China says, already answering the unasked question.

"He did what?" Francis splutters.

China shrugs, and takes another pastry, "These are good. Who brought them?"

"HA!" Arthur shouts, and everyone jumps, "See! China likes them! I told you I could cook, I told you!"

Francis shakes his head, and mutters something about two ruined batches. Matthew wishes he would just let Arthur have this one victory. The man is dancing as if he has won a gold medal.

China raises an eyebrow, " _You_ made this?" He nods, impressed. " I guess old cats _can_ learn new tricks."

"It's dogs," Matthew corrects, but no one hears him.

"I was going to make something, but I'm too busy these days. I just picked something up at the store."

Arthur freezes, and stops his strange victory dance, "Wait- you _bought_ something?"

China frowns, "Yes?"

"I was allowed to _buy_ something? I didn't have to ask the Frog for help?" Francis starts laughing, and Arthur punches his shoulder, "Shut _up_! You stupid bloody Frenchman!"

China starts on some strange tangent about using certain spices in cooking. Kiku doesn't look very happy about it, and goes off to help Germany get some water for Prussia. Francis just listens and nods at parts, while Arthur looks completely lost in the conversation.

Matthew just stands awkwardly. He looks around for anyone he can talk to, but most people are still taking pictures of the hole in the living room wall. He had been hoping to be able to talk to Alfred, but with so many things happening, he thinks it might be better to wait for a quieter day.

Prussia, Germany, and Alfred finally appear at the base of the stairs. Prussia is still plastered, and his hand is wrapped thickly in bandages. Spain yells something about Prussia's right-hook, but no one seems to notice the color completely drain from Alfred's face. He starts to sway on his feet, and Matthew can tell exactly what's going to happen a second before it does.

He calls out, but he's too late and too far away to do anything.

Alfred drops like a lead balloon.

* * *

 **Notes:** Not sure how I feel about the second half about the chapter, but meh.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers in America, I hope you've had a good day!

To all my followers who don't live in America- uh... happy holidays?

Reviews would be great!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:** Y'all I cried while writing this, and I'm not a very teary person.

I know you guys have been waiting for this chapter for a long time, and I'm not sure how I feel about how well this is written (because my brain hasn't worked all week haha), but here ya go.

* * *

Alfred is master of the fake it until you make it method.

Bullshitting through his problems is something he's very familiar with. He lies until his blood runs black and then lies even more, sometimes he thinks he should write a book. He could call it 'Bullshit: blood, bile, and betrayal'. It would make reader's eyes bleed and English teachers cry in horror. The final chapter would be this party, because this is the end. There's absolutely no way he can lie his way out of this one.

His first mistake was the potluck. If he'd had any functioning brain cells at all, he'd have realized just how bad an idea it was. After months of meticulously planning and charting every meal, fighting for absolute control over everything he eats, he just gave it up. He has no idea what's in the food everyone brought. Most of it is homemade, so there's no wrappers and no calorie information.

Alfred avoids the food table like it's poison.

His headache gets worse, and he's lightheaded. All he wants to do is lie down, but he's hosting a party that he can't just _leave_ , so he rides it out. Mattie wants to talk to him, Francis tries to get him to eat something, and Ludwig says he looks pale, but as long as Alfred's standing, he isn't going to eat anything.

And then his body decides it doesn't want to be standing anymore.

They're walking down the staircase when the whole world flashes black. He stumbles to the bottom, so close to Gilbert he can see the uneven strands of his silver hair, and the next thing he knows, he's on the floor.

His head screams like someone's pounding nails into it. People are yelling, there are hands on his shoulders, and when he opens his eyes the world spins so fast it makes him dizzy. His stomach jumps into his throat.

"Oh my god! Is he okay?"

"Alfred!" Three people shout his name at the same time, and Alfred would laugh if it didn't feel like an elephant was sitting on his chest. He's heavy, so so heavy, but his head is floating two feet above his body.

"Give him space, give him space!"

Whoever's yelling doesn't seem to have much control over the situation, because the room only seems to get closer around him. The music is too loud, the lights are too loud, _everything_ is too loud.

The darkness is louder and it takes him.

When Alfred wakes again, the house is silent. He blinks, but his surroundings don't get any clearer. It takes him far too long to realize he can't see because his glasses are gone. He tries to sit up, but his head suddenly starts screaming in agony and black spots flash across his muddled vision.

Someone's touching him, holding his shoulders until he stops swaying, "Careful, _careful_ , _mon petit_."

Oh. It's Francis.

Something cold and heavy is pressed into his hands, and it takes several moments for Alfred to realize he's holding a plastic cup. It looks like it has a little water in it, but he takes a sniff just to be sure. He doesn't smell anything strange, so he hesitantly raises it to his lips.

"It's just water, _mon petit_. Drink it slowly." There it is again. Francis hasn't called him by that pet name in _years_.

The cup tilts forward without Alfred moving it, and he startles a little as the cold water floods between his lips. He splutters and coughs, and a bit of it spills into his lap, but Francis holds the water steady against his lips until he's swallowed a few gulps.

"Glasses?" Alfred whispers hoarsely, trying to wipe water off his chin.

There's a shuffling sound, and a dark blur moves closer to him. His glasses are carefully slid onto his face and the world comes into focus. He's sitting on the couch in his living room, and the place seems so much bigger now that it's not filled with so many people. Francis is sitting next to him, one hand still tentatively placed on his shoulder, and Kiku is kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"Where did…" He trails off, but Kiku doesn't need to hear the rest of the sentence to know what Alfred is asking.

"Everyone left after you passed out. It was getting late and half of them were drunk anyways."

"Oh," Alfred doesn't know what else to say.

The house is quiet, but it's not empty. Gilbert is sitting at the table, head resting in his arms, either still drunk or hungover. Alfred doesn't know how much time has passed so he doesn't know which. It's still dark outside the windows, so he assumes it's very early in the morning.

Ludwig stands next to his brother like he's keeping watch over him, which is kind of funny in a relatable, brotherly way, but his gaze isn't on Gilbert. He locks eyes with Alfred unflinchingly and there's something steely serious in those aryan features.

Arthur is leaning against the kitchen wall, his eyes determinedly glued to the floor and his arms tightly crossed. Alfred has seen this pose more times than he can count, and it's never been accompanied by anything good. Matt is on a chair, hunched over so one of his knees is tucked under his chin. He's close enough that if Alfred reached out he could touch him, but far enough that Alfred doesn't want to try.

They're in a circle, surrounding him, and Alfred suddenly realizes what they're trying to do. This is an intervention.

 _They know they know they know_

"You told me you were eating." Matthew's voice is so soft and so sad. He's chewing on the ends of his hair like he does when he's scared, and Alfred hates that he's the reason his brother looks like a kicked puppy.

"I was."

It's not technically a lie, but no one looks like they believe him anyways.

"Everyone thought you were drunk, but I was standing by that table all night and you never drank anything." Francis' tone is delicate. Alfred has noticed it before, but it really hits him now how similar Matt and Francis sound when they're trying not to cry.

"You fainted because your blood sugar is low." Ludwig speaks up, and what is he even doing here? Shouldn't he be taking his brother home and not staring at Alfred like he's some kind of puzzle that needs to be solved?

This puzzle can't be solved. It's just broken.

"When was the last time you ate, Alfred?"

Alfred knows the answer. He could tell them down to the very last minute if he wanted. He can even remember how many calories he ate, but he doesn't say anything. The truth is too real and scary. They're panicking enough as it is.

His silence is as good as an answer, but no one says anything, almost as if they stay quiet long enough he'll tell them something different. Arthur stares unblinkingly in the opposite direction. A buzzing fills Alfred's ears and there are _too many too many too many_ people in here. Too many people who now know how big of a failure he is, who know how pathetic he's become.

"You can't do this," Francis says firmly.

 _It's funny because I can._

"There's nothing funny about it."

Oh wait, did he say that out loud?

"Since when do you care?"

Francis inhales sharply. His eyes widen and they look like they could be made of glass as he whispers, "You think I don't care?"

Shit, shit, shit, this is all too personal and Ludwig won't _look away._

The house is so still Alfred can hear the clocks ticking on the walls and the buzzing of the empty refrigerator in the kitchen. A trail of wine is running off the edge of the table and he can hear the steady dripping as it collides with the floor. It's going to get sticky. He should clean it up soon.

"Down, down, we fall," Gilbert slurs, then mumbles something almost entirely incoherent about masks.

Arthur finally looks up from the floor to meet Alfred's gaze, and oh… he shouldn't be allowed to look that scared. Those oh-so familiar green eyes and overly large eyebrows are contorted in a look of pain and fear that Alfred has never seen before. They're terrified of the monster Alfred has created.

Alfred's sure that Arthur can see the exact same fear mirrored in his own eyes, because he's afraid of the monster too.

It's Matthew that really breaks him. Tears are streaming down his twin's face, and Alfred has the sudden urge to hurt whatever made Mattie cry, but _he's_ what made Mattie cry and he's already hurting himself. That's why Mattie's crying.

He's crying too now. His face falls into his hands and he's shaking like he could fly apart and _why won't they all just look away?_

"I think I need help." It's barely a whisper, and it physically hurts to say it. Deep in his chest his heart is on fire, and it's slowly burning up into his aching throat, but he says it again, "I think something's wrong with me."

"Okay."

"We're here."

"You're not alone."

Alfred doesn't know who says it, but in the end, it doesn't matter.

It's said.

* * *

 **Notes:** So this story (or at least the first few chapters) is also in Chinese thanks to my super cool translator, Jaz. I don't know if that matters to any of you, but here's the link to the website it's posted on if you want to check it out: . ?novelid=4059226

Leave a review if you liked this chapter (:

Seriously guys, stay safe


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** Whoop it's been a while, but here's the next chapter.

Thank you to everyone who's left reviews, they really help :)

Alfred's finally starting to get better

* * *

 _You don't have to be a hero to save the world_

 _It doesn't make you a narcissist to love yourself_

 _It feels like nothing is easy it'll never be_

 _That's alright, let it out, talk to me_

 _~ Cavetown (Talk to Me)_

The headache Alfred wakes up with is almost bad enough to make him forget.  
Almost.  
As it turns out, even when it feels like a sledgehammer is pounding into his skull, it's impossible for him to forget everything he's said. He cried in front of everyone. It would be embarrassing enough in front of Kiku or Francis, but Arthur and Ludwig are a completely different story.  
He's not sure how aware Gilbert was during the sobfest, considering how drunk the Prussian was, but Alfred feels mortified nonetheless.  
They all know everything now.

The week between Christmas and New Years is a daze. It feels like a hole in time, a tiny piece of the year that's not really supposed to exist. Or at least that's what Alfred thinks. He guesses it's probably different for nations who aren't Christian and don't have as big of a buildup to Christmas.

His head just wants to go through the motions; wake up, weigh himself, shower, run, go to work. Except now he's got six other very confused and scared people in his house, trying to keep him from self-destructing. Alfred's not allowed to run, not allowed anywhere near a scale, he's not even allowed to go into work.

The others try to get him to eat, and he honestly tries to do it. They're freaking out and he's trying really hard not to make it worse. He holds his breath and puts the food in his mouth, even though his head is screaming at him to spit it out. It's pretty hard to go from eating next to nothing to three square meals a day.

Alfred throws up a lot the first week.

He's not even trying to, but his body is too used to rejecting everything it eats. Arthur misunderstands and tries to pull Alfred away from the bathroom, and Alfred ends up vomiting all over himself. It's mortifying how little control he has over his body. Francis and Matthew both cry, and everyone else starts yelling at each other.

"Oh my god, none of you idiots are helping!" Gilbert eventually shouts, "He needs someone who actually knows what they're doing!"

In the end, Ludwig resolves to find him a therapist and a nutritionist. The very thought is terrifying, but Alfred is so so tired and nothing else is helping. He's only getting through the days by pushing everything away and trying not to think.

He says as much to Mattie one night, and his brother just whispers back, "I'm so sorry, Alfred," in a brittle voice.

Alfred is starting to get really sick of making Mattie cry.

Everything reaches a peak on New Year's Eve. Fireworks are bad, even on good days, and everyone is already on their last nerves. Ludwig and Arthur snap at each other, Francis is antsy and jumps at small noises, Kiku and Gilbert go completely unresponsive. Alfred and Mattie hide upstairs while war breaks out around them.

It's not even dinnertime before Ludwig announces that he, Gilbert, and Kiku are catching the soonest flight home.

"We'll be back," Kiku says firmly as they start shuffling their things outside. His eyes are still glassy, but he's cohesive enough to pack his things. "Just give us a week or two."

Alfred understands, he really does. It's hard to deal with someone else's messy mental state when you're not doing so hot yourself. He tries not to feel hurt, but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a blow.

The house feels quiet with the three of them gone.

He finds a new first-aid kit in the bottom drawer of his bathroom cabinet. The razor is gone, replaced by the box of bandages and antiseptic. It's wrapped with a red bow, and there's a sticky note that says 'happy new year, thanks for patching me up' in Gilbert's stilted handwriting.

It's just a stupid note, but it makes Alfred cry anyways.

He gets a lot of texts. They don't all know what's going on, but word has spread about him fainting at the Christmas party. Lithuania and Romano both send get well wishes (the latter significantly more aggressive than the former) and Italy sends him a cute drawing of a cat. Alfred also gets a lot of texts from Russia, which is weird, but none of them are particularly threatening, so he doesn't ask why.

He goes to his first therapy appointment the Wednesday after new years.

The therapist is nice enough. Alfred keeps forgetting her name, but it doesn't really matter. He doesn't know who she is, or how much the government has told her about him, so he's slow to trust her.

Alfred learns a lot of words during therapy. A lot of them he already knows. PTSD, anorexia, depression, they're words he's already learned to associate with himself and the other nations. But there are other words too, like dysphoria and dissociation, words that he'd never thought would apply to himself.

He feels like the therapist is slowly dissecting and labeling him. She takes out every part of him and gives it a name. It's exhausting. She asks him why each piece is there, and sometimes he has an answer. Most of the time he doesn't, but sometimes if he thinks hard enough, he can trace his thoughts to certain times and places.

Matthew is waiting outside when Alfred finally finishes. When he asks how it went Alfred just shrugs, "It happened, I guess."

"Germany's been talking to the NATO leaders. He's trying to get mandatory therapy sessions for us all, so it won't just be you for long."

"Yeah. He was talking about that."

"Are you okay?"

"Tired."

"That's alright. It's been a long day."

When they get home, Alfred curls up on his couch and stares blankly at the opposite wall. Mattie turns on a Disney movie for him to watch. It's one of the less popular ones, but the music is nice. Arthur walks past and drapes a blanket over him, trying to act casual.

It's a nice feeling, and Alfred slowly drifts off to the sounds of his family around him.

* * *

Arthur won't hold him. The days when Alfred could simply run up and curl into his older brother's arms are long past. They're on better terms now, but there's still way too much water under the bridge for them to try and cross it now. Alfred doubts they ever will. He can't imagine a reality where they go back to what they had. It's just not going to happen.

But Arthur still undeniably cares for him. Sometimes it's hard to see, but it's in the way he calls every so often and sends god-awful birthday gifts, even if he won't come to the party. He cares, but he won't hold, won't even touch Alfred. Sometimes he can't even look at him. Alfred is okay with it. He can't look at himself either, and Arthur is really trying.

Arthur doesn't ask questions as Francis and Matthew do. He tries to distract everyone with movies and books and gets a little too mad at himself when he messes things up. He's started to help Francis with the cooking. It's mostly just cutting vegetables and stirring sauces, but he's trying.

Francis holds him as if he is made of glass. Francis is the type of person who will hold anyone if they let him. He's far too old and has been through far too much to let anything stop him from showing affection for those he cares about. Where Arthur is hesitant and awkward, Francis is warm and opening. But Alfred is made of glass and Francis is determined not to break him.

Francis handles him like he's delicate, easily shattered and broken. Hugs are brief, and contact is scarce. They barely touch when it happens. His words are soft and carefully chosen, as his hands ghost over Alfred's shoulders.

Sometimes he finds Alfred collapsed on the bathroom floor, reeling and shaking like he's about to fall apart. He'll sit beside him and ever so gently hold his hand until Alfred can breathe again, and the fire isn't made of fire anymore. Just glass.

Matthew holds Alfred as if his life depends on it. Matt has always been the sweet, gentle twin, but not when it comes to this. He'll slip into Alfred's bed at night and cling to his brother firm and tight enough to remind them both that they're still here, still alive.

Alfred wakes with long, dark bruises shaped like his brother's arms. Everything bruises these days. Sometimes he'll be bruised by just sitting in an odd position. He'll never tell Mattie because if Matt thought he was hurting him, he'd definitely stop, and Alfred's come to like the bruises. Every time he stretches, it sends a jolt of numb pain down his back and reminds him that his brother loves him.

His brother loves him.

His brother loves him.

His family loves him.

And Alfred keeps fighting.

* * *

 **Notes:** I still have at least one more chapter planned for this story, so hang in there lol

reviews would be great, I promise I'm nice :)


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